She closed her hand over the gash in his own, the place where his jagged memories had cut deep into his psyche. So gentle, and yet it hurt all the same. When he bled in here, within his mind, it was his essence spilling out into the void. It was his Mongrel-self, the personality that the Heathen Priests had built when they'd tortured him into obedience, slowly unraveling... and leaving pain and confusion in its wake. If he tried to grasp all of those memories, cut himself on all those sharp edges, would he come apart? What would be left of him?
There was not enough of his old self remaining for him to become that man again. There was no going back from what he had done. He had helped to kill a planet, and to burn dozens more. The blood of billions dripped from his hands, for he had been an integral part of the slaughter and enslavement of every population that had ever crossed the Brotherhood's path. He had been their tool, one of the weapons they had used to carve open the flesh of the galaxy. If Kallan, the real Kallan, the speeder mechanic, had known that was his destiny...
... he would have shot himself.
But there was a bit of Kallan in The Mongrel now, a piece that was awake. It was a piece that felt regret, and guilt, and self-loathing. The Mongrel did not want it there, did not want to feel those feelings... but that piece of Kallan also felt something The Mongrel could not feel on his own. It felt
empathy. That piece of his old self was capable of unselfish love, and it loved Mercy... or the person she had been, the person beneath the hate and violence that the Maw had instilled in her, just like it had for him. And now he knew her name.
Keilara. He turned the name over and over in his mind, and he found himself breaking a little more inside. Perhaps it was Kallan writhing inside him again, feeding that remorse he did not want to feel, but he found himself torn. There was a part of him that wanted to call her Mercy, to keep her as his own, the lover who tied him to a galaxy he could no longer find pleasure in on his own. But there was also a part of him that wanted to call her Keilara, to recognize that she was as much as victim of the Brotherhood as he was, to
empathize.
He did not know what to say. Or to do. Or to feel.
He kissed her. But he knew he had to go.
Keilara. The name echoed in his thoughts as his war bike raced toward the ruins of the first trench, tangled in his mind. It might be his last revelation, the last time he could be beside her in the safety of his own mind, shutting out the horrors of the galaxy - horrors he had helped to create. He knew that this charge of his had only a fool's hope of succeeding, of allowing any of them to survive. He faced five commanders and all the armies they could throw at him. He might be a Mawite legend, forged in blood, but he was only one man.
Overhead, the skies were full of fire and metal. The Ashlan orbital strikes had ceased, which most likely meant that the Final Dawn fleet had finally arrived in the system, but that had only been one part of the death raining of the Maw from above. The intense flak barrage from the war skiffs, filling the narrow valley with a cloud of metal, had picked off only a few of the enemy craft; three bombers and six fighters were hardly impressive kill numbers, less than ten percent of the Eternal Empire fleet's deployment to the valley...
...
five percent with the ground army's bombers factored in.
In short, it was not a number of kills that would significantly affect the combat effectiveness of the ongoing aerial attack... so Mercy's suggestion was a welcome one.
"A good suggestion," The Mongrel praised her, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of his bike's engine.
"If you can reprogram them to fire on the enemy air support, do it. But it is better to destroy them than to allow the enemy to recapture them." Take care of yourself, she told him. He wished he could... but only grave danger lay ahead for him.
He did not know how long he would have to wait for the reprogramming to be complete; it might be too late by then, the air support having already pounded them to dust. Fortunately, other factors were already thinning the aerial attack. The Mongrel let out an audible whoop of fierce celebration as the skies filled with a cloud of wispy green gasses, for he knew what it symbolized: the Brotherhood was about to get some air support of their own. The warriors of the Emerald Nebula had arrived to bring death to their foes.
On their own, even with Mawite flak support and even given their ferocity, the Emerald Nebula marauder-pilots would have been in great danger. Three squadrons would be
ridiculously outnumbered by the
fifteen that the Eternal Empire had deployed, even after their minor losses. But other factors conspired to even the odds a little. Several of the EE squadrons pulled away, moving to support the northern front or hunt down the elusive spider cruisers, though the bulk remained in the valley. It would be hard fought, perhaps hopeless.
But the Maw relied upon faith when hope was impossible.
And perhaps their faith had paid off, for the Eternal Empire squadrons had made a miscalculation: they had decided to strafe the Mawite artillery positions.
Unfortunately for them, every War Skiff that remained functional had been thrown into the charge across the valley floor; nothing remained in the artillery positions but the twisted hulks of Scar Hound vehicles they had already destroyed. Their rounds struck only shattered hulls and dead men. Perhaps they could not see through the cloud of smoke the artillery had deployed earlier.
Ironic - the only thing that had saved the Mawites from that attack was that so many of them were already dead. Hopefully the strafing run would give the Emerald Nebula pilots an opening to unleash on the enemy air support, for the flak that could be directed against them was dwindling. Apparently the Nuetralizers had somehow found time, in an open field being barraged by artillery, to plant explosive charges across the terrain, claiming a few war skiffs when they detonated them. Well, the Maw didn't have more than a few skiffs
left.
And only the skiffs had the MetaCannons for the flak.
The Scar Hounds, as always, were being bled away blow by blow. The Mongrel was reminded of an initiation ritual practiced by the Bloodsworn, one he had gone through as a new slave-soldier. The initiate stood in a circle of brawny warriors... and the entire circle beat the ever-living
chit out of him. A strong warrior could take a punch, even two or three. But a punch to the gut, the kidney, the back of the head, the shoulder, and the knee, all at once... no one could stay standing. Now The Mongrel stood alone in that circle again...
... but if he fell, he would be
killed, not initiated.
Jerking his bike to the side to avoid the burning hulk of a war skiff as it went down, spilling warriors to the cratered dirt of the valley floor, the warlord caught sight of yet more grim developments. The Ashlan troops were already moving to cover the vulnerability he had hoped to exploit, moving their defensive lines to more fully block the road. If his forces didn't hurry, this last-ditch plan would be for nothing. But there was
some good news: the wolf droid attack had succeeded, bringing down one of the Ashlan shield projectors. A small hope.
Hoping to follow up on their momentum, The Mongrel directed the Wolf Droids to continue down the slope, aiming to crash against the new Ashlan defensive line taking shape on the road before they had time to dig in. With great mechanical roars they charged the Sisters who had just left the safety of their trench, eye-mounted blaster cannons blazing, their huge jaws and claws slavering with robotic fury. They had less surprise on their side now, but with the Sisters exposed on the open road, perhaps their momentum would be enough.
The titanic droids charging at you downhill?
Terrifying.
But even as The Mongrel dared to feel a little hope rising again, another punch from that brutal circle struck home. The eastern cliff suddenly
burst in a huge outward explosion, sending a rain of titanic rocks down into the valley. For the front right flank of the Mawite charge, there was no time to maneuver... or even to scream. The flying boulders squashed them, flattening bikes and annihilating their riders, crushing one of the last war skiffs into two pieces. Half the valley mouth was now blocked, forcing the riders behind the dead to change course.
Creating a brutal chokepoint right at the first trench.
It was at that moment that The Mongrel recognized the truth - with such overwhelming forces arrayed against him and precious little support, he and his forces stood no chance of reaching the Alliance base. All they could do was to sell their lives dearly, keeping as many of the enemy focused on
them as possible, in the hopes that
Zachariel Steelblood
and his Bloodsworn could break through on the northern front. He was almost certain to die here, outnumbered five to one, but perhaps his death could have meaning, could prove
worthy.
He was glad he had told Mercy his name.
He would miss her in Paradise.
Grim resolve guided his hand as he bore down on
Hi'los Krai
, his riders all around him. He would defeat this titanic alien commander, or he would die well in the attempt. The rest of his riders would streak straight past, aiming to bypass the trenches as planned and slam into the Ashlan rear defenses. That would surely keep the enemy's attention, for it would appear they were on the verge of breaking through to the base.
"Today we pass into the Galaxy To Come!" The Mongrel howled.
"Rejoice, for we die well! REBIRTH AWAITS!"
The Gen'dai had a lightsaber. Naturally. The Mongrel steeled himself for the confrontation; he was not sure how long his own blade would hold up against the godlike weapon of the Jedi and Sith, for he had seen his sword gradually destroyed in such duels before. But no one else among the Scar Hounds could possibly stand against this enemy champion. It had to be him.
~ I hope I see you in the world beyond, ~ he thought, hoping he was close enough to Mercy for the message to reach her; she was the telepath, after all, not him.
Steeling himself - he would have taken a deep breath if he'd still had lungs - The Mongrel slapped a stick of detonite to his war bike. Then, pointing it
directly at the Gen'dai commander, he jumped off. With cybernetic reflexes he caught himself on the jagged craters in front of the trench, rolled over his shoulder, and came up running, sword in hand. His bike kept going, the blades on the front aimed to impale Hi'los. And as soon as the bike entered the trench... the warlord pressed the detonator in his hand, hoping to blow his foe apart.
It might not
kill a Gen'dai, but it could slow him down.
Eina L'lerim-Vandiir
|
Greer Caimbeulaich
|
Lena Dracov
